Ignoring her husband, Brooke expertly cornered Declan near the dimming charcuterie board. She leaned in, deploying her most conspiratorial tone.
“So, regarding my pitch… about us potentially synergizing and working together on future luxury campaigns?”
Declan stopped smiling. “Brooke, I really appreciate the hustle, but I’m not currently hiring.”
Brooke’s smile didn’t falter; it just hardened. “Oh, I wasn’t necessarily talking about a traditional hiring structure. I meant collaborating. As equal partners.”
“I’m pretty locked in right now. My schedule is entirely booked.”
“For how long?” Brooke pressed, an edge of desperation bleeding into her voice.
Declan paused.
“Professionally,” Declan said softly, “or emotionally?”
I had to look down at my boots. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. I, tried not to laugh at the sheer brutality of the rejection.
I failed. A quiet, breathy chuckle escaped me.
Declan remained in the frigid house for another twenty minutes out of sheer politeness.
